Sunlight spilled into the cave in slow, deliberate strokes—first a soft glimmer against the stone, then a full wash of gold that clung to the walls like molten honey. The air, once heavy with night’s chill, warmed by degrees as the light unfurled across the floor, catching on stray bits of moss and the jagged edges of rock until everything seemed to glow from within. I tilted my face toward it, letting the warmth press against my skin like a balm, easing the last grip of cold from my bones.

  Beyond the cave’s mouth, the waterfall had quieted, its roar faded to a whispering thread of sound that curled through the air like a lullaby remembered from a dream. Mist clung to the leaves where the spray had once danced, the rocks outside no longer slick with defiance. The path looked dry now—welcoming, even—but I couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at the corner of my mouth, recalling how the water had once stripped us bare in its fervor.

  I leaned forward, elbow braced on my knee, eyes pulled toward the horizon. The forest below lay swathed in a gauzy veil of mist, its treetops kissed by dawn’s slow fire. Shafts of amber light speared through the canopy, catching on the sway of branches as the wind teased them into motion. The leaves shimmered—green one moment, burnished gold the next—an ever-shifting sea that rolled and sighed with secrets. Farther out, the river slithered through the valley, silver and serpentine, flashing bright where the sun touched it like a promise waiting to be broken.

  Life stirred in the distance. Wings flickered through the trees, brief blurs of color and motion. A twig snapped far below—something small and unseen, moving through the underbrush. But up here, it was still. Still enough that time itself seemed to hesitate.

  I breathed deep. The morning air was sharp and clean, with a hint of pine and damp stone. For a heartbeat, the world asked nothing of me. No choices, no consequences. Just the hush before movement, the light before heat.

  But already, my mind strayed. The trees below weren’t just trees, they were the edge of something. A line I’d have to cross. And no matter how golden the morning, it wouldn’t stop the weight waiting on the other side.

  I huffed out a quiet laugh, tilting my head back against the stone.

  The old saying was devastatingly true "No rest for the wicked.”

  I leaned back against the stone wall, the cool surface grounding me. The sky had shifted to that soft, opalescent blue that only came in the hush before morning fully took hold. Light pooled at the mouth of the cave, and I let myself believe, just for a moment, that it might hold the day back a little longer.

  A rustle of blankets behind me pulled me back into the present. A sleepy sigh, and a voice—thick with drowsiness and just a hint of mischief stirred.

  “Good morning…”

  I didn’t look right away. Instead, a slow grin crept across my face, unbidden. “Well now,” I said, glancing over my shoulder, “you finally got it right, it is indeed a very good morning. Must be a special occasion.”

  Lyra blinked lazily, propping herself up on one elbow. Her hair spilled in dark waves over her arm, catching the gold in the light like threads of onyx set with fire. She raised an elegant brow, lips curling into a familiar smirk that never quite promised innocence. “Don’t sound so surprised,” she murmured, “I knew I’d get lucky eventually.”

  She stretched, arms overhead, back arching with feline precision, and I pretended not to notice. Badly. The blanket fell pooling at her waist, sunlight danced around her, as her hair, still mussed from sleep, tumbled around her like a silk curtain no one had bothered to fix. She met my gaze with a glint in her eye, smug and wicked.

  “You look hungry,” she said, eyes flicking down, then back up slowly. “Care for a little breakfast?”

  I tilted my head, as though genuinely considering, even as my eyes betrayed me—lingering too long on the soft curve of her neck, the way her lashes caught the light, the faint imprint of sleep still pressed into her cheek. The morning had draped itself around her like a lover, and I couldn’t entirely blame it.

  “Darling,” I murmured, drawing the word out, “you are absolutely the most dangerous thing in this cave.”

  She leaned toward me slightly, just enough to shorten the distance. “Oh?” she said, mock-innocent. “And here I thought you were the big, scary one.”

  “Terrifying,” I agreed. “But tragically susceptible to temptation.”

  The silence between us stretched, warm and pulsing. The kind that begged for a step closer, a touch, a dare.

  My eyes dropped to her lips. Just for a second.

  I exhaled through my nose, dragging a hand down my face. “If I start,” I said, voice rougher now, “I will forget about the rest of the day.”

  Lyra's smile curled slow and wicked. “And?”

  “And,” I said, reluctantly pushing to my feet, “we have places to be.”

  I rose and turned to face her, she was already watching me intently. That familiar glint danced in her eyes, sharp as a wink, as if she'd caught me red-handed in some silent confession. And maybe she had. Her lips curled into a grin, not smug, just knowing, as a bright little giggle slipped past them, light, musical, and utterly unbothered.

  Without a word, she reached for her dress.

  The green fabric caught the morning light as she lifted it, folds swaying like leaves in a breeze. In one smooth motion, she stepped into it, the hem whispering against her calves. Her arms slipped through the sleeves with practiced grace, the bodice settling around her like it belonged there, clinging in just the right places. Damp no longer, the linen shimmered faintly in the sun—sun-dried and warm, like it had waited just for her.

  She moved with the sort of elegance that didn’t try to be noticed and yet refused to be ignored, fluid, deliberate, every gesture laced with quiet confidence. The tie at her waist cinched with a tug, and she glanced up as she fastened it, catching me still watching.

  Just for a moment, I almost took back what I’d said. Almost.

  “Kieran.” Lyra’s voice halted the quiet preparations, soft but insistent. “Before we go… there’s something I wanted to ask.”

  I didn’t turn at first. Her words had already drawn a shape in the air, and I knew what it would be. I’d felt the question coming—her touch last night, careful and curious, had lingered just a breath too long on the ridges of old pain.

  A weary smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Ah. I wondered when you’d bring it up.” My voice tried for lightness, but it cracked at the edges. “A fair price, I suppose, for such gentle fingers on ruined skin.”

  She said nothing at first. Just watched me. The silence between us folded in, thick with things unsaid.

  “I did want to ask,” she said at last, her tone careful, almost reluctant, like she already regretted prying. “But if it’s not something you wish to share, I’ll understand. Truly.”

  I wished she’d pushed. I wished she hadn’t. I wished I didn’t have to say anything at all.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I murmured, barely more than a breath. My fingers tightened slightly at my sides, knuckles whitening as I stared past her, out into the woods. “There’s nothing back there but ruin.”

  The air shifted. The warmth between us faded, cooled by something heavier. The silence wasn’t gentle now, it pressed against my chest like a hand, urging me forward when every instinct begged me to stay silent.

  “But it never really stays buried, does it?” My voice dropped lower, rougher. “It haunts every step, every breath. Pretending it doesn’t exist doesn’t make it less real.”

  I turned to her then. Her eyes, open, waiting, met mine, and something in me recoiled from the kindness I saw there. I didn’t want to see it vanish. But if she was to stand beside me when the time came… she had to know.

  “If you stay on this path, Lyra… you need to understand what’s waiting at the end of it.”

  I exhaled slowly, dragging the past up from where I’d buried it. “It’s not just a scar. It’s a mark of servitude. A contract, etched in flesh.”

  Her expression didn’t change, not yet—but the light in her eyes dimmed, just slightly.

  “Killian doesn’t take people at their word,” I went on, my tone cold now, distant. “When I swore my loyalty, he said I sounded… unconvinced.”

  A bitter laugh slipped from my throat, dry as dust. “So, he corrected that. Sat me down and carved every letter of my ‘promise’ into my back—slowly. No magic. No mercy.”

  The words hung there, thick as smoke, curling in the silence that followed. I didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.

  She needed to see this part of me.

  Because if she was going to help me end him—she had to know what had already been taken.

  I could still feel it, the phantom sting of the blade, the sickening warmth of blood running down my skin. My scars burned at the memory, but I pushed through the pain and locked eyes with Lyra. She had to hear this.

  "I sacrifice all—my honor, my birthright, and the lives of those who stand with me. Morality is but a fleeting chain for the weak; power is the only true constant. I will see every principle and every bond reduced to ash if it grants me power. No price is too great, no sacrifice too personal. I exist not to serve the whims of morality but to bend the world to the Iron Fang, Lord Killian’s will. This I swear, as a soldier of the Dishonored Watch."

  The words left a foul taste in my mouth, like poison I had swallowed too many times to count. My voice grew sharper, edged with old wounds that had never fully closed.

  “Killian used to say my screams calmed him.”

  The words came out rough, like they’d been waiting too long behind my teeth. I didn’t look at Lyra—I couldn’t. The morning was too still, too soft to hold what I was about to unearth.

  “He said it was like music,” I went on, barely above a whisper. “A favorite piece he could never quite get enough of. Every cry, every broken breath—he listened like a composer fine-tuning a masterpiece.”

  My jaw tightened, and I felt the familiar ache in my fists before I realized I’d curled them. My nails bit into my skin, grounding me.

  “If I quieted—if I flinched too soon or lost the pitch—he’d stop.” I swallowed hard. “He would smile. Then start again. Slower. More deliberate. He wanted to hear every note.”

  The memories didn’t come as images, not anymore. Just sensations. Cold sweat. The sting of steel tracing bone. The suffocating pressure of being utterly owned by someone who enjoyed every second of it.

  “He didn’t want my loyalty. He wanted my suffering.” I looked down at my hands, the skin pale with tension. “He wanted to watch me fracture. To see what I’d become when there was nothing left to break.”

  A breath rattled from my lungs, sharp and bitter. The air felt too clean for the words I was spilling into it. Too pure for the filth they carried.

  “And the worst part?” I murmured. “He succeeded.”

  There it was. The truth I didn’t want to say. The part that made my chest feel hollow and full all at once—like my ribs couldn’t hold the weight.

  The rage in me never left, not really. It simmered in the background, red-hot and coiled. But under that was something colder. Something quieter. A kind of despair that had rooted itself deep—bone deep—and learned how to speak in my voice.

  I stared past the cave’s edge, past the light filtering through the trees. I wanted the world to look like how I felt—ruined, ash-covered, broken underfoot. But it didn’t. It was beautiful. Calm. That made it worse.

  “I was young. Angry. I thought vengeance would fix everything.” I shook my head. “He saw me coming from a mile away. Held out the promise of justice like bait, whispered all the right words… and I was too blind, too eager, to see the hook buried in them.”

  The regret tasted like metal.

  “The cost was never just blood. It was me.”

  I looked at Lyra then. Forced myself to meet her eyes. She deserved that much. My voice was quieter now, but no less steady.

  “The oath isn’t just a scar. It’s a brand. Burned into everything I am. Killian doesn’t just command me—he owns me. Mind. Body. Soul.”

  I let the next words settle like a curse.

  “Even death wouldn’t free me. It’d just send me back to him.”

  Silence followed, heavy and thick. I let it hang between us as Lyra said nothing in return. The morning stretched quiet around us, the hush after my confession thick with breath and consequence. Her voice startled me, even though it was soft but certain, threading through the stillness.

  “I know I can’t take the pain from you,” she said. No hesitation. No reach for comfort that would never land. Just truth, spoken plainly. “But I do feel it. I see what he stole. What he tried to erase.”

  Her words didn’t sting, didn’t soothe either. They simply… fit. Like she’d laid them gently into the hollow space left behind by the wounds.

  I let out a breath—sharp, involuntary. Shook my head once. “It’s not about feeling sorry for me, darling.” My voice had hardened again, edged with steel, the cold return of inevitability biting through the warmth she offered. “It’s about knowing what’s coming. Killian doesn’t let go. He hunts. He waits. And when he comes, there will be no mercy.”

  She nodded slowly, but her eyes never left mine. There was no fear in them, no horror. Just a stillness—measured, steady. Like she’d looked into something dark and hadn’t flinched.

  Not pity. Never that.

  I didn’t know what to call it. But whatever it was, it caught me off guard.

  She tilted her head, studying me the way she always did when she was deciding how deep she could cut with honesty.

  “Not long ago,” she said, almost idly, “the man before me helped pull me out of the abyss. Stood between me and the dark. Filled my nightmares with threads of light willing me not to give up.”

  She smiled, not bright, not sweet. Just true. Her voice carried the weight of memory, of pain endured and not forgotten.

  “And when I woke, I remember thinking,” she continued, “that a soul capable of such mercy wasn’t lost. Just fractured.”

  She didn’t look away. “And fractures, Kieran,” she said, her voice gentler now, but still unwavering, “given time, can be mended.”

  The words didn’t settle gently. They struck—sharp, uninvited—lodging in places I’d buried too deep for comfort. I wanted to laugh. To mock the idea. To remind her that Killian hadn’t left mercy in me—he’d carved it out. But the words caught in my throat.

  Because Lyra didn’t believe in lost causes.

  And for some damned reason, she refused to believe I was one.

  I swallowed hard, turning my gaze back toward the trees, chasing distance. It was easier than facing the way she looked at me. Like there was still something in me worth salvaging.

  Her voice broke the silence again, quieter this time. Careful.

  “May I ask one more thing?”

  I nodded, wary of whatever weight might follow.

  “Why Vorn Azareth?” she asked, her voice laced with equal parts curiosity and reverence. “Of all the tongues he could’ve chosen… why carve your oath in the language of the Xevraki? That dialect is raw magic. It breathes. If you misplace even a syllable, the meaning reshapes itself into something monstrous.”

  The question shouldn’t have shaken me. But it did.

  My heart kicked once, sharp in my chest.

  I laughed—too quickly, too loud. “Vorn Azareth! Who knows, really?” I tried to shrug, to play it off, but the words came out tight, unnatural. “He’s a bastard. And apparently a creative one.”

  But even as I said it, the weight of that language pressed cold against my spine. The Xevraki didn’t craft words the way mortals did. Their tongue wasn’t just spoken, it was summoned. Breathed into being by gods older than understanding. To speak it was to conjure power. But to etch it—into flesh, no less—was to bind a living curse.

  Killian hadn’t just branded me.

  He’d invoked something ancient. Something that still stirred beneath my skin.

  And he’d known exactly what he was doing.

  If a single syllable had been misplaced, if even the smallest stroke of a glyph wavered, the consequences would be catastrophic, not for the one who took the oath, but for Killian himself. A poorly wrought command in Vorn Azareth could unravel, warping its meaning into something unintended, something uncontrollable. A vow meant to ensure dominance could become a shackle on the master instead. A pledge of loyalty could spiral into a curse.

  So why risk it? Why entrust such power to a language that did not forgive mistakes?

  Killian must have believed himself flawless, his will absolute. Or perhaps he had been so arrogant, so assured of his control, that he never considered failure a possibility.

  Either way, the danger was real. And if there was even the faintest imperfection in the oath’s inscription, then somewhere, buried in the ink, a weakness might remain. For the first time I began to feel a small flicker of hope. If there was a weakness to exploit, a mistake he had made I would find it and use it with our mercy against him.

  A small grin touched my lips, though it didn’t quite reach the part of me that should have felt victorious. Choosing Lyra, weaving her into my plans, manipulating her into an alliance, it had been my finest move yet. She was sharp, resourceful, and powerful in ways even she didn’t fully realize. And yet, somewhere along the way, the manipulation had shifted. Twisted. No longer hers to fall for, but mine.

  I forced the thought away, focusing instead on what mattered, the Xevraki. I needed more information. What I knew of them was just scraps—fragments whispered in corners, half-truths dressed as bedtime warnings. Don’t speak their words unless you want them to speak back. Don’t step foot in Velmorrith, the Maw of Writs, unless you’re prepared to leave everything behind including your soul.

  Not exactly comforting bedtime stories.

  But the venom still lingered in my blood, and whatever plans I had for chasing down forbidden knowledge tied to Killian would have to wait. We needed to return to camp. Not get swallowed whole by ancient curses wrapped in syllables older than the stars.

  I let the thoughts fall away and turned back to Lyra.

  She hadn’t moved. Her posture was quiet, watchful—but her eyes gave her away. There was concern there, yes, but something gentler too. Something that settled low in my chest before I could brace for it.

  I didn’t deserve it, not the worry, not the warmth—but still, there it was.

  Without thinking, I reached out and curled my fingers around hers. Her hand was smaller, cooler, but it steadied me in a way nothing else had in days. I pulled her in gently, closing the space between us until her breath mingled with mine.

  For a moment, I just looked at her.

  Her eyes caught the morning light and held it, dancing like smoke in sunbeams. I’d seen magic before. I'd wielded it. But this—her—had a weight that spells never quite managed.

  I dipped my head and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering just long enough to feel the moment catch between us.

  “Thank you, darling,” I murmured, voice low.

  When I stepped back, she blinked up at me, brow lifting. The corners of her mouth twitched.

  “For what?” she asked.

  I let a smirk slide into place. “For finally showing me what a good morning looks like.”

  Her laugh rang out—light, clear, chased by something brighter. The heaviness between us slipped loose, dissolving into the air like breath on glass.

  "Now," I continued, rolling my shoulders as I turned toward the path. "Back to camp we go. Who knows what plans Corran has for us now, but I’m sure they cannot be delayed any longer."

  Another laugh—this time not at the words, but the dry, reluctant way I said them. She’d always found my aversion to heroics amusing.

  But if she laughed like that every morning, I might just start calling them good, too.

  Present day…

  I slumped into the balcony chair, the coarse weave of the shirt scraping over the raw ridges of old scars. It clung wrong, too stiff, too plain. Not mine. But then again, what was?

  Fingers brushed absently at the fabric, as if smoothing it could summon a memory. Nothing came. Not a favorite color, not the feel of worn-in sleeves or soft leather. Just static.

  A breath caught in my throat, and I let it out slow, eyes drifting past the iron railing to the muddled sky beyond. Somewhere, sometime, I’d had a life before Killian. I was sure of it. But when I reached for it, all I found was fog, thin and curling. Faces blurred, laughter muffled. A warmth that I couldn’t touch anymore.

  It felt like recalling a dream I wasn’t even sure I’d had. And maybe I hadn’t. Maybe that person—whoever they were—had disappeared long before the scars.

  Maybe I’d gone with them.

  I sat motionless in the chair, the breeze brushing past like a ghost. From the outside, I might’ve looked peaceful, just a man watching the slow roll of clouds. But inside, something thrashed.

  A flicker ignited in the dark, small, defiant. No, I told myself. You had a home. You had a life. The words echoed, firm as a vow.

  I closed my eyes. The world narrowed to the sound of my breathing and the pulse pounding behind my ribs. I pressed inward, deeper, toward the place I’d hidden it. Past the walls built for survival. Past the fog Killian had wrapped around my mind like chains.

  It hurt.

  Each step inward was a flame against old wounds. But I kept going—through the silence, through the grit of half-formed memories and the ache of not knowing. My fingers twitched against the armrest. The fog resisted, thick and stubborn. But it shifted.

  Mist.

  Then shapes.

  Then—

  A tremor passed through me, sharp and silent as a blade. The image bloomed in full: warm light spilling through a doorway, voices I knew in my bones, the scent of bread and old wood. A home. My home.

  And for the first time in so long, I didn’t just remember—I felt it.

  My home lay cradled in the heart of Eldershade, where the trees rose like giants, their canopies brushing the heavens. Their thick limbs wove together high above, gnarled and ancient, as if the forest itself had reached out to hold the sky in place. Long tendrils of moss hung from the branches like forgotten whispers, swaying gently in the filtered light. The air was always damp, rich with the scent of loam and wildflowers—but there was something else too. Something older. A breath of time itself, resting between the roots and stones.

  The cottage sat nestled there, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. It was small, its stones worn smooth with age, its dark wood walls streaked with years of wind and rain. Moss clung to the thatched roof like a second skin. Light glowed behind the arched windows—soft, golden, familiar. It spilled onto the forest floor in the evenings, cutting through the gloom like a memory you didn’t know you still carried. The garden was a wild tangle of lavender and night jasmine, their blooms curling over the edges of the porch, scenting the air with something heady and sweet. I can still smell it if I close my eyes—jasmine, fresh soil, and the musk of tilled earth clinging to my boots.

  We farmed because we had to. Because the land gave just enough. My hands remember the weight of the plow, the calluses that formed, split, and hardened again. Dawn always found us already working, my father moving in steady rhythm across the fields, his shadow long in the mist. I trailed after him at first, too small to be useful, but he taught me the land’s secrets before I ever learned their names. We had goats who nibbled at the hem of our tunics, chickens that darted like windblown leaves, and an old plow horse with a crooked gait and a white blaze like a lightning strike down his nose. He smelled of sweat and oats, and I loved him fiercely.

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  And when the fields rested, we turned to the forest. Eldershade did not give freely. The forest watched. It waited. I learned to move with it, silent steps, steady breath. To listen to the hush before a deer emerged, to kneel at the creek's edge with the stillness of stone. My sister would laugh and call me the shadow boy, always disappearing into the woods. My mother’s hands, stained dark with blood and berries, worked with quiet precision as she skinned the catch, her voice humming some old tune that curled around us like a warm blanket on a frost-bitten morning. She never missed a stroke. She never missed a note.

  I sank further into the memory, letting it unfold like a dream I didn’t dare wake from. It was the evenings that clung most tightly, the way light spilled across the wooden floor in honeyed streaks, the hush of twilight broken only by the crackle of the hearth. The scent of roasting meat would curl through the cottage, drawing us close. My father’s knife tapped rhythmically against wood as he carved small figures—animals, mostly, with faces smoothed from years of handling. My sister’s voice rose and fell as she spun tales, her eyes bright, her hands painting pictures in the air. My mother sat by the fire, wool trailing between her fingers, her motions steady and soft, as if she were weaving more than thread—binding us together in silence and breath.

  And sometimes, there was music.

  My brother’s fiddle would stir to life, sharp and sweet, and my mother would rise, her skirts whispering across the floor as she spun in time. Her laughter rang out, bright and wild, and we would follow—clapping, stomping, singing, until the little cottage seemed too small to hold all that joy.

  But the warmth flickered.

  Something in it wavered.

  The laughter echoed—once, then again, too perfectly. My brother’s bow froze mid-stroke. My mother’s dance slowed, her smile too still. The firelight dimmed at the edges, and the smell of roasting meat faded into something vague and hollow.

  Was it ever real?

  I blinked, heart hammering. The memory blurred, edges softening like fog over glass. Had her hands truly felt that warm? Did my sister ever laugh like that, or had I just stitched her voice from scraps of longing? Was there ever bread in the oven, or had I imagined that comfort conjured it like a spell to keep the dark away?

  The forest. The cottage. The firelight.

  They slipped from my grasp, piece by piece.

  The Eldershade still whispered to me, but the voice had changed. There’s sorrow in it now, a quiet mourning. The home I knew is gone.

  Or maybe—it was never real at all.

  What if I really had made it all up?

  What if I’d given myself a dream, just to survive the nightmare?

  Leaning forward, I reached for my wine, searching for even the smallest comfort. I wanted nothing more than to erase Killian from my mind, as he had erased the life I had before him. The cool glass offered a fleeting distraction, a fragile reprieve. But as I settled back again, the chair’s touch against my scars dragged me unwillingly into the past—back to that night.

  The night he carved his ‘oath’ into my flesh.

  The memory was as sharp as the dagger he had used. Which he lovingly called Dreadthorn.

  I had seen it up close, too close. A jagged, twisted thing, forged in the unholiest depths of Velmorrith, where light itself was devoured. Its smoldering black blade drank in the surrounding glow, casting a sickly, shifting shadow over my skin, as though the weapon itself breathed with dark intent. Vorn Azareth runes, that I hadn’t recognized at the time, ancient, cruel, and inscribed with purpose, pulsed along its surface in a slow, ominous rhythm. Their crimson glow a silent whisper of the power bound within.

  Veins imbued with Unfading Ink were carved deep into the metal, leaving behind scars that no healer’s touch could erase. They slithered through the blade like molten fissures, flaring to life when called upon in dark rites, each pulse sending forth a resonance that seeped into the soul. The hilt, wrapped in charred flesh, was an extension of its master, a perfect fit for Killian’s grasp. No mere weapon, it was an extension of his will, a conduit of his cruelty, bound to him in an unbreakable Xevraki pact.

  I had felt its edge once.

  And no matter how much time passed, I could still feel it now.

  Dreadthorn wasn’t just a weapon. It was alive. It craved blood, thrived on suffering—just like its master. I had seen it in action, felt its hunger, and even now, the mere thought of it sent a shudder crawling down my spine.

  That blade did more than cut. It devoured. The pain it inflicted went beyond flesh, beyond bone—it tore into the very essence of a person, ripping through the soul, leaving wounds that could never truly heal.

  I winced as I remembered how he took great pleasure in slowly and meticulously carving the scar into my back. Even before it touched my skin, I felt it. The air bent around it, dimmed. Light bled away from its edges like it had changed its mind about being there. The dagger was wrong—jagged, coiled, alive in a way metal shouldn’t be. Its surface shifted like oil over water, a deep, smoldering black that drank the glow of nearby torches until all that remained were shadows that twisted unnaturally across my back.

  The torture began as if night itself had sharpened its claws, ready to inscribe its darkest whispers upon the canvas of my flesh. The Dreadthorn traced its jagged edge across the vulnerable expanse of my back, each stroke a searing line of fire. The pain wasn’t sharp. It was deep. A burn that clawed its way under my skin and coiled there, like it meant to stay. The blade carved slowly, dragging molten fire through muscle and bone.

  Time had unraveled in that room, hours slipping into something shapeless as the blade carved deeper. Stroke by deliberate stroke, Killian pressed his will into me, each motion more precise than the last. My body trembled, seized, but I couldn’t move—not from fear. Not anymore. Something inside had already splintered.

  The dagger sang through flesh with a low, vibrating hum. Not music. A dirge. My muscles tensed with each pass, drawn taut like strings, too thin to hold against the pressure. Each drag of the blade felt like a bow across nerves, scraping out a song of agony I couldn’t silence.

  Light from the blade’s glowing veins painted the walls in shifting reds and blacks. It twisted the shadows into grotesque silhouettes, flickering things that laughed at me, mocked my helplessness. My vision swam. I tried to hold to something—anything—but my mind had turned to glass, already cracking under the weight.

  I don’t remember if I screamed. I think I did.

  At some point, I lost the shape of myself. The pain didn’t just take the body, it reached deeper, pulling at whatever part of me was still untouched, still mine. He carved more than flesh. He wrote a history in blood—a declaration. The scar he left wasn’t just a wound. It was a sentence.

  Even now, after centuries, I can feel it flare beneath my skin. A phantom heat, a sharp pull where the rune-line still pulses faintly in the quiet. Some nights I wake gasping, certain I smell burned air and see that cursed red glow bleeding through the dark. My fingers twitch to cover my back, as if I could shield what’s already been taken.

  I flinch when rooms fall too silent.

  I look over my shoulder more than I want to admit.

  The past doesn’t stay buried. Not when it was carved into you.

  And sometimes, when I catch myself listening for footsteps that should never return—I wonder if the nightmare truly ended…

  …or if I’m just in the space between chapters.

  The edge of panic curled around my ribs, tightening with every breath. I took a hurried sip of wine—bitter, clinging to the back of my throat—but it did little to quiet the tremor in my hands. My gaze drifted, searching for something solid.

  And found her.

  Lyra lay bathed in the soft spill of moonlight, her chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep. One arm curled beneath her head. She didn’t stir, didn’t speak, but something in the stillness of her presence reached me. As if even in dreams, she was aware.

  The storm inside me slowed, not stopped but softened, like waves breaking against the unshakable stone of her. I hadn’t even realized how loud it had been in my head until the silence of her steadiness began to fill it.

  She didn’t need to touch me or speak a word. The memory of her fingers brushing mine, the echo of her voice saying my name like it meant something, I clung to those things. They held me here, in this moment, instead of somewhere far darker.

  With Lyra, the shadows recoiled. The ruin in me quieted.

  She didn’t just pull me back from the edge.

  She was the edge—where the fear stopped, and I could breathe again.

  My sanctuary, wrapped in moonlight and sleep.

  Weeks earlier…

  As we neared the camp, Lyra's steps quickened, lured by the tantalizing aroma of breakfast wafting through the air. She took a deep breath, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips while her eyes sparkled with the thrill of anticipating another of Alexander's culinary delights. I couldn't help but laugh softly and roll my eyes at her boundless enthusiasm for food.

  Suddenly, Lyra halted, causing me to bump into her, nearly toppling us both. I caught her just in time, pulling her close. Concern flickered across her face as she looked up at me.

  "Did you get enough," she whispered, her voice dipping to a hush, "dinner, last night?"

  I grinned, holding her gaze. "Consider my appetite satisfied… for now darling," I replied, then released her. "Go on, get your breakfast. You’ll need your strength" I added playfully.

  Lyra paused, searching my face for a moment, then broke into a smile and turned back towards camp. "Can your appetite ever truly be satisfied, darling," she called back teasingly. I arched an eyebrow. Lyra chuckled lightly and continued on her way, heading straight for Alexander.

  I deliberately slowed my pace, allowing Lyra to reach the camp a few steps ahead of me. The camp appeared deserted save for our small group, the lively remnants of yesterday’s festivities now faded into distant memory. As I passed Corran and Lyra, who were busy filling their plates, snippets of their conversation drifted to me; something about the druids departing early, making their way back to the grove.

  Craving a rare moment of solitude, I moved swiftly toward my tent. Stepping into the quiet comfort of my private space, I felt a profound sense of relief—a feeling I had scarcely known during my time under Killian's relentless gaze. He had always found ways to intrude, to keep me unsettled, denying me even a moment's peace. Killian's presence had been oppressive, suffocating me with endless scrutiny and manipulation, always pushing me to my limits and reveling in my discomfort. With Lyra, it was different. Even amid my manipulations, her presence was strangely comforting, easing tensions I hadn't fully realized were there. Her gaze, unlike Killian’s, never felt like an intrusion; rather, it offered quiet companionship that I found oddly reassuring.

  Settling onto my bedroll, I reflected upon the evening’s events with quiet satisfaction. Everything had unfolded flawlessly—Lyra now stood closer than ever. Her knowledge of the scars Killian had left and the cruelty I endured perfectly strengthening the bond between us. My tactics of affection and carefully constructed vulnerability were working precisely as intended. Still, a persistent voice whispered from deep within, stubbornly insisting that Lyra was more than just a pawn in my carefully crafted game. Perhaps she genuinely mattered to me, a possibility I was reluctant to acknowledge. Shaking my head gently, I pushed the unsettling thought aside.

  Determined to maintain appearances and solidify Lyra's loyalty, I rose and joined the others by the morning fire. Alexander had prepared an impressively lavish breakfast, so elaborate I found myself wondering whether he had foregone sleep entirely to accomplish it.

  The table beside Alexander’s tent groaned under the weight of a breakfast fit for a noble’s feast, each offering a masterpiece in its own right. A basket of bread sat at its heart, the golden-brown crusts glistening where melted butter had seeped into the delicate layers. There were pillowy butter-crust rolls, their edges crisp yet tender within, still warm from the oven. Beside them, cinnamon-spiced star buns unraveled in soft, fragrant layers, dusted with just enough sugar to glisten under the morning sun. Plump blueberry scones, their tops kissed with a dusting of powdered sugar, burst with pools of dark, jammy fruit, each bite melting into the clotted cream generously spread upon them.

  Goblets brimming with a rich, velvety chocolate drink infused with enchanted vanilla sent curls of steam into the cool morning air, promising warmth and indulgence with every sip. For those who preferred something more bracing, a battered copper pot rested over the fire, coffee percolating with a deep, earthy aroma that spoke of wakefulness in its purest form.

  The heartier fare was no less decadent. Sizzling strips of bacon curled and crackled in a cast-iron pan, their rendered fat adding a smoky perfume to the air. Plump sausages, their casings browned and crisp, nestled beside a platter of scrambled eggs so creamy they bordered on decadent, ribbons of melted sharp cheese stretching as each spoonful was lifted. Fragrant herbs, finely chopped, flecked the golden folds, adding freshness to the richness.

  As I watched Alexander orchestrate this morning feast with the precision of a master chef, I began to suspect that perhaps he wasn't so much a wizard as a chef who had mistakenly donned a robe and found himself in over his head. The absurdity of the notion brought a smirk to my face as I settled beside Lyra, who was already devouring her second star bun, her fingers dusted in sugar, her expression one of pure bliss.

  As I watched Alexander bustling around, dishing out yet another absurdly lavish meal, I found myself once again questioning where, exactly, he managed to source all his ingredients. The local vendors at the grove certainly didn’t carry half the exotic fare he whipped up on a daily basis. Saffron-infused honey? Starroot spice? Aged Sylvan cheese? The man cooked like he had an entire royal pantry at his disposal.

  Suspicion gnawed at me as my gaze drifted around his tent, half-listening to the others chat. Then, like a damning clue in a mystery novel, I spotted it, a strap peeking out from beneath a pile of books. Not just any strap. A strap attached to what was unmistakably another Satchel of Wonders.

  I groaned audibly, rolling my eyes so hard they nearly disappeared into my skull.

  One bag of infinite space wasn’t enough for him? No, of course not. Alexander had to have two. One for his precious tomes, and now another—because apparently, the gods saw fit to grant him his own personal pantry. Meanwhile, the rest of us had to make do with normal, boring backpacks.

  The Satchel of Wonders—or as they were more properly known, Balfaren’s Infinite Satchel—was an item of legendary rarity. Woven from enchanted leather, its surface was a rich, dark brown, impossibly soft yet somehow resistant to tears, fire, and even the ravages of time.

  Intricate swirling filigree patterns adorned its exterior, pulsing faintly with latent magic. The entire thing was cinched shut by an elaborate network of braided cords, each laced with protective enchantments to keep nosy hands (like mine) from prying where they didn’t belong.

  Its enchantment was nothing short of absurd: no matter how much was placed inside, the bag never weighed more than ten pounds. A single thought from its owner was enough to summon whatever was stored within—be it a tome of forbidden knowledge, a suit of armor, or, in Alexander’s case, apparently an entire gourmet kitchen.

  Naturally, it refused to open for anyone but its attuned master. Anyone foolish enough to try would find their hands repelled by an unseen force, and on rare occasions, launched a good five feet backward by an indignant teleportation spell. Unlike lesser magical storage, Balfaren’s Infinite Satchel was impervious to extra-dimensional tampering, meaning it wouldn’t implode, rupture, or otherwise disintegrate its contents into the void if mishandled.

  And yet somehow, against all odds, Alexander had managed to get his hands on two of them.

  I shook my head in exasperation as he hummed to himself, plating up a meal fit for a noble court, blissfully unaware—or worse, entirely aware—of how ridiculous his luck truly was.

  Spotting my gaze locked on his treasure, Alexander cleared his throat and shook his head at me, causing me to give him a scrutinizing look.

  “Let me get this straight,” I began, incredulous, “You're using a magical, inter-dimensional storage artifact... as a pantry?”

  “Every adventurer needs a good meal to stay fit for battle, Kieran. Happy adventurers, happy life—or something to that effect. And let’s not reduce it to merely a ‘pantry.’ Inside that satchel lies an assortment of tomes for a cozy read by the fire, maps, potions, various magical items for…well that’s personal, and oh! Clean robes. Given the turn our adventures usually take, believe me, clean robes are a godsend.”

  As Alexander expounded on the virtues of his enchanted satchel, my right eye twitched with a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment. Lyra elbowed me, grinning and finishing her star bun, moving on to a piece of bacon. Rhys stood to grab another plate, her eyes darting excitedly over the remaining food choices. After loading her plate, she returned to join us by the fire.

  "So, what's the plan, mates?" she asked, her mouth full of eggs, causing Corran to laugh heartily at her relentless appetite.

  "I trust everyone's cheery mood this morning means last night's celebration was a hit," Corran said, his tone light but quickly sobering. "It was well-deserved—but it may also be our last for some time. The road ahead is fraught with danger."

  "Of course it is," I muttered, unable to keep the edge from my voice. There was always some looming threat, always another noble quest.

  "You mentioned your friend Davidia?" Lyra asked, arching a brow. "Do you truly believe she holds answers to the venom’s spread?"

  "Without a doubt," Corran replied firmly. "The letters Fini smuggled to me were riddled with warnings. Davidia was uncovering something sinister villagers behaving as though under some external control, Serpenthir patrols thickening around previously quiet regions."

  "There are many ways to influence the mind," Alexander offered. "Spells, potions…”

  "True," Corran cut in. "But these weren’t isolated incidents. Entire villages flipped overnight. Places known for their peace and kindness turned into lawless dens of violence. She wrote of them uniting under a single banner. That kind of transformation… it isn’t natural."

  “Wonderful. A mindless army now too,” I said with a tight smile. “Heroic quests, spreading venom, brainwashed villagers—just perfect.”

  Corran ignored my tone. “If there’s a way to stop this, Davidia will know it. I’m certain.”

  “Assuming she’s still alive,” I snapped. “Not that anyone’s letting that small detail slow down this grand march to glory.”

  "How do we find Davidia?" Lyra asked, deliberately ignoring my grumbling as she sipped the warm chocolate drink Alexander had handed her.

  "She lives in Morning-Glory," Corran replied, "but from the tone of her last letters, I fear she may have fled into the forests of Ebonbriar” he paused, brow furrowing in thought. “We have two routes that could lead us to her, though neither is without peril."

  I let out an audible groan. “Of course not.”

  Emre didn’t even blink. “Unlike Kieran, I am not afraid,” she said, voice flat as ever. “Whichever path leads toward retribution and an end to the venom—I will walk it.”

  “Unlike Emre,” I shot back, “I have a fondness for staying alive long enough to see retribution.”

  Her jaw tightened. “Then do try not to slow us down.”

  “Corran,” Lyra interrupted, cutting through the tension with practiced grace, “what are our options?”

  Corran turned toward Mylena. “My dear, if I recall correctly, you have a map? Might I borrow it?”

  Mylena nodded and ducked into her tent, returning moments later with a rolled parchment. Corran took it gently and unfurled it on the ground. He exhaled through his nose, then tapped a jagged mountain range that loomed like a barrier between us and the edge of Ebonbriar.

  “Titan’s Anvil,” Corran began grimly, pointing to the black ridgeline on the map. “A colossal stretch of obsidian peaks, jagged and sharp as shattered glass, rising like broken teeth from the earth. Its valleys are scarred by ancient magical storms—tempests that still rage with unnatural fury. Charred trees, twisted mid-scream, dot the landscape like frozen warnings. The winds themselves seem to hunt, guided by a will that is not their own. Some who climb too high claim to see shapes in the storm—giants of thunder and lightning, hammering the heavens as if some god still forges war above the world.”

  Alexander blanched. “I’ve read tales—some say the storms are remnants of a celestial war, divine fury etched into the sky. Others believe a slumbering titan lies beneath those peaks, and its dreams churn the clouds into chaos. Titan’s Anvil isn’t merely dangerous, it’s a place that tests your very existence. A crucible of wrath.” He swallowed. “Dare I ask what our other option is?”

  Corran hesitated, eyes shifting to a point on the map beneath the mountains. “There is… another way. A place, long lost to light and bathed in legend. Buried beneath even the roots of Titan’s Anvil lies Umbradorn. In the vast expanse of darkness there is rumored to be a lost city. Once a bastion of knowledge and wealth, lies a hidden route to the Ebonbriar.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Excuse me—did you say bloody Umbradorn?” I threw my hands in the air. “So, we can either get shredded by divine lightning or take a casual stroll through the literal abyss. Wonderful.”

  Corran nodded, face drawn. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I growled, pacing now. “Who comes up with these choices?”

  Rhys, unfazed and still chewing her breakfast, looked up. “Never heard of Umbradorn. What’s so scary about the dark?”

  Alexander turned to her, still pale. “In Umbradorn, light dies. Fire dims. Shadows don’t just fall—they breathe. The darkness shifts around you, listening, watching. Some say it speaks. Some say it feeds. There are things there—creatures without shape, eyes that blink open just long enough to remind you you’re never alone. And once you stray too far from the light, you might not ever come back.”

  Lyra’s eyes moved over the map, then lifted to study our group. “Then our path is clear,” she said calmly. “We take Umbradorn.”

  “What?” I turned toward her, exasperated.

  But Lyra was already gesturing to Emre. “We have a guide built for this. Who better to lead us through the living dark than an elf born from it, Emre of House Abilron?”

  Emre gave a faint, sardonic smile, her arms folded. “It’s true,” she said dryly. “I don’t startle easily. Or freeze up in a storm. Or whine when things get… inconvenient.”

  She didn’t look at me, but the jab landed cleanly. I shot Emre a glare; she didn’t even acknowledge it. Just lifted one infuriating eyebrow and turned calmly back to Lyra. “You’ll need a gateway if you want to enter Umbradorn.”

  "Are there any gateways nearby?" Lyra asked, turning her attention to Corran.

  Corran hesitated. His usual composure cracked as he fidgeted with the edge of the map, lips twitching in what could only be described as embarrassment. “Ah… there is one. Not far from here, actually. But it was created by a rather, shall we say... indecorous hedge witch.”

  I raised a brow. “Wait. Are you blushing?”

  Corran coughed into his hand, but the bloom of color rising up his cheeks betrayed him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he murmured, avoiding eye contact entirely.

  “Oh, he’s blushing,” I said, grinning despite myself.

  Yalela, who had been half-dozing in the morning sun, perked up like someone had shouted her name. Her entire face brightened with childlike glee as I heard her voice in my head. “We’re going to see the hedge witch?” she gasped. “Oh, she’s delightful! Absolutely mad!”

  Corran muttered something unintelligible under his breath and adjusted his robes, still very pink in the face. His reaction was understandable. Hedge witches were a wild sort—ancient magic in messy form. They preferred the company of owls and nettle bushes to anything with manners. Territorial, blunt, and wise in a way that made most druids uneasy, they walked a strange line between divine communion and arcane craft. If one agreed to help, there was always a price. Always.

  “Sounds like this witch is our best bet,” Lyra said thoughtfully, eyes sharp with focus. “Let’s pack up and head for her cottage. Once we’re through the gate, we’ll find our way to the lost city.”

  A small voice piped up from the edge of the fire. “After breakfast though… right?” Rhys looked positively stricken at the thought of leaving a full table behind, her eyes glued longingly to the untouched platters Alexander had laid out.

  Lyra smiled, warm and indulgent. “Of course, Rhys. After breakfast.”

  “YES!” Rhys lit up like a child on festival day. She punched the air with a triumphant cheer and sprang up to make herself another overflowing plate. “Adventure and sausages. This is the best day ever!”

  As the others began folding up tents and securing gear, Lyra and Corran pulled Emre aside, their hushed voices full of strategy and dark speculation. I, meanwhile, trudged back to my tent, dragging my heels like someone headed to their own execution.

  I shoved gear into my pack with more force than necessary, grumbling under my breath. My hand brushed something cold and familiar—the book. Its leather cover still mocked me with that eerie, smoldering skull. I stared into its silent, face, and as I picked it up, the air around me seemed to tighten.

  The whispers came again, soft at first, curling around my ears like smoke, then growing clearer. Words filled my mind, ancient and sharp, like something pressing against the inside of my skull.

  "Under the veil of shadowed civilizations, beneath a quiet city's heart, lies a tome of silent whispers, bound in Vorn Azareth secrets, infernal and dark. Seek where light dares not to linger, find the echoes lost to time; a seeker true, with courage lit, shall unlock the pact sublime. Dare the depths where silence beckons, heed the call that few have braved, for only through the darkest passage is the path to wisdom paved."

  And just like that, the joy of breakfast and hedge witches faded. The shadows were already reaching for me.

  A hand touched my shoulder, pulling me abruptly back to the present. Startled, I spun around, clutching the book tightly. Lyra stood there, her expression laden with concern. I released the breath I hadn't realized I was holding and managed a forced smile.

  "My dear, I really am going to have to get you that bell," I teased, trying to lighten the mood. This time, however, Lyra was not swayed by my playfulness. She crossed her arms, her face still marked by worry.

  "That book gives me the creeps. Are you sure you’re, okay?" she asked, her eyes intently studying my face.

  "Yes," I smiled back at her, though the unease lingered. "The book is... rather creepy, but” I hesitated, unsure if I should reveal that the book had spoken to me.

  "But?" she prompted.

  "You said this morning that the contract on my back was written in Vorn Azareth, are you sure about that?" I asked, looking up at her earnestly.

  "Quite," she replied, her eyebrow arched in curiosity. "But what does that have to do with the book?"

  "I'm not entirely sure, but the book... it spoke to me. Well, more accurately, it whispered a riddle to me, mentioning Vorn Azareth in the prose. I always assumed the contract was merely an oath, but I can’t shake this feeling in my gut that it’s something more. It doesn’t make sense that he would write it in a language I couldn’t read, let alone one as dangerous as Vorn Azareth." As I spoke, Lyra's expression softened, and she uncrossed her arms, sitting down beside me.

  "Do you think the book has information on the Xevraki?" she inquired gently.

  "It's a very dark tome, filled with bloody riddles, incantations and dark knowledge, it's possible it contains something pertinent," I mused. Looking down at the book, I felt an intense longing to open it, like a thirst building in my soul that could only be quenched by the knowledge inside.

  As I carefully opened the book, it seemed to take on a life of its own, snapping open with an eager sharpness and rifling through pages until it settled on a chapter near the end. "Syllables of ruin: The Language That Should Not Be," the title read. I shared the summary with Lyra: "An exploration of the unspoken script once carved in blood and ash by the Xevraki, the veiled scribes of Velmorrith. Known as the language without voice, Vorn Azareth is not read but felt—each symbol a silent invocation, each line a whisper that gnaws at the veil. Use with care; understanding may come at the cost of silence... or soul."

  Flipping quickly through the pages, I noted, "It seems the written language of the damned is primarily employed for crafting contracts or powerful rituals."

  "Hmm…I have seen Xevraki contracts before, while your scars are definitely written in Vorn Azareth, there is something odd about them. Maybe we could cross-reference the scars with the symbols here and figure out what that bastard truly did to you," Lyra suggested, leaning in closer to examine the book.

  "You... would you help me with this?" I paused, surprised by her eagerness.

  "Of course I would. Stop looking at me like I sprouted an extra head and focus on the book," she replied with a reassuring smile. I returned my attention to the tome, turning pages until I reached the end of the chapter.

  "Ah, here we are," I murmured, flipping to the next page before pausing and flipping back, then forward again, my frustration growing. My eyes widened as I absorbed the content.

  "What?" Lyra inquired, noting my agitation. Through gritted teeth, I read her the final words on the last page of the chapter, the shock clear in my voice.

  “"See Book II: Chapter 666 – Rites and Pacts of the Damned: Binding of Word to Will

  This chapter delves into the ritualized framework of demonic accord as preserved by the Xevraki, those who ink in silence and bargain in shadow. It charts the anatomy of demonic contracts, from minor service-binds etched in bloodless ink, to labyrinthine soul-writs whose terms shift with the reader's gaze. Samples are included, though their use is ill-advised. Scattered throughout are accounts of notable pact-bearers—names now erased—whose ambition sealed their fate in clauses they never read, or worse, believed they understood."

  With an abrupt snap, the book closed itself, its spirits seemingly chuckling at my plight. I could almost hear their laughter echoing in my head, a cruel reminder that Xykrath had warned me about the malicious souls trapped within these pages. "Of Course, the essential chapter is in another book entirely—how convenient!" I muttered sarcastically, rolling my eyes at the all-too-familiar frustration. What else did I expect.

  I paused, turning toward her, something cold settling at the back of my neck.

  “Wait a moment, darling,” I said slowly. “How exactly is it that you are familiar with Vorn Azareth?”

  Lyra winced. Not subtly—full-body, as though the question had struck something raw. Her eyes dropped to the ground, and for a moment, she said nothing. Just breathed. Then came the sigh—long, quiet, resigned.

  “I was foolish,” she said at last, her voice barely holding together. “I couldn’t understand why my magic turned against me. Why I suddenly felt at home in chaos, when my world had always been… peaceful.”

  Her gaze met mine then silver and green, as always, but hollowed now by a grief that hadn’t faded. “I thought I must be cursed. So, I started digging. Through every forbidden text, every dark ritual, every cursed contract I could find. I stopped looking for answers and started chasing control. I didn’t care what it cost.”

  She looked away again, her voice dropping, growing tight. “I became obsessed. The more I studied, the deeper I sank. And the deeper I sank, the more I changed. I felt something growing in me—something not mine. It fed on resentment, on anger. I’d lash out. I’d say things to hurt people, just to feel something. I wasn’t just learning the language. I was becoming fluent in cruelty.”

  “I didn’t mean to lose myself,” she said. “It happened slowly. I thought I was the one holding the quill.”

  I didn’t speak. I knew she didn’t need questions. She needed to be heard.

  “I saw it first in the mirror,” she whispered. “A flicker in my eyes that wasn’t mine. Then the markings—thin, jagged glyphs under my skin, like ink bleeding through from somewhere deeper than flesh. I never drew them. They just… appeared. Like the language was writing me.”

  She swallowed hard, her gaze locked on the ground like it might dissolve the truth if she stared long enough.

  “And then the Witnesses came. I’d see them—just behind me. In every reflection. Tall, thin things with eyes like burnt-out stars. I thought I was hallucinating at first. But they never left. The Xevraki say they come when the language takes hold. When it starts to etch itself into your bones.”

  When she looked back at me, it stole the breath from my lungs. Her face was still Lyra’s. But her eyes... there was something in them that had stared too long into silence.

  “It wasn’t just me. My mother… stopped laughing. My friends stopped looking at me. I was still there, but something else was watching through me.”

  She let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh, but it died before it formed.

  “Vorn Azareth doesn’t need a voice,” she said. “It teaches you to speak without one. It speaks through your will. And every time I used it, every time I let it in, I felt less like me. More like something that should never have been spoken.”

  Her hands trembled in her lap. She didn’t try to hide it.

  “I used to laugh more,” she said softly. “Before the writ. Before the Witnesses. Before I learned that power could be quiet—and still leave you screaming on the inside.”

  Then her eyes met mine again, and what I saw there wasn’t power or knowledge. It was pain. Deep, old pain wrapped in guilt she’d never forgiven herself for.

  “Those nightmares you pull me from—they’re not just dreams. They’re memories. Twisted ones. Versions of me that liked the pain I caused. That reached for more.”

  She took a breath and didn’t let it go.

  “If I ever start to slip again—if I become her, that thing in the mirror—stop me. Even if I beg you not to.”

  Then her hand reached for mine—steady now, deliberate.

  “And I’ll do the same for you, Kieran,” she said. “Whatever’s bound to your back… whatever the language carved into you wants from you… I’ll help you escape it. I will. You pulled me out. Let me return the favor.”

  I gave her a nod. Not a promise.

  A vow.

  I studied her for a long moment, this brilliant, haunted creature who had seen too much, and yet still carried the fire to fight it. Without a word, I reached up and gently brushed aside that one stubborn curl that always fell across her temple.

  When her eyes lifted to meet mine again, I let a small smile tug at the corner of my mouth.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” I said softly, “your secret’s safe with me. I’m an excellent vault. Very handsome. Slightly cursed. But trustworthy.”

  A flicker of amusement sparked in her eyes—faint, but real.

  “There she is,” I murmured, squeezing her hand once more. “The version of you that still makes me want to kiss you and run for my life, all at once.”

  She gave a soft, broken laugh, and I caught the ghost of a smile. It didn’t last—but it didn’t have to.

  For a moment, the shadows stepped back. Her laughter—soft, frayed around the edges—hung between us like a fragile truce. But even as I held her hand a heartbeat longer, my thoughts drifted.

  Back to the book.

  Its voice still echoed at the edges of my mind, cold and curling like smoke: Under veils of shadows, a sleeping city, where light dares not linger.

  I frowned, the cryptic phrase unraveling slowly, word by word, until it clicked into place with the quiet precision of a lock being turned. My pulse quickened.

  Lyra must have seen the shift. Her hand lingered in mine, but her gaze sharpened, reading me like she always did.

  I sat back, letting the riddle settle, turn, fit. I bolted upright, sudden enough to make her flinch slightly.

  “You know, darling,” I said, a grin tugging at my mouth despite the tension curling in my gut, “I think Corran was actually onto something for once. This little Umbradorn expedition of his? It might be exactly where we need to go.”

  Lyra arched a brow, but the spark in her eye had returned uncertainty laced with curiosity.

  “Come now,” I added, already reaching for my pack, “chop, chop, we’ve a hedge witch to consult and a sleeping city to wake. If the riddle’s right, the next piece is buried there, waiting for us in the dark.”

  Gods help whoever or whatever tried to keep it from us.